


Hearts and Flowers and Little Rhinestone Crowns

by cerise



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, crackfic, sociopaths in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-15
Updated: 2006-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerise/pseuds/cerise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don Lamb is the hero of his own damn story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts and Flowers and Little Rhinestone Crowns

He must've made a thousand of these kinds of routine stops in his run as sheriff in Neptune. Little shiny silver bullet of a car whizzing by and clocking sixty in a residential area like it owns the road. Time to step in and teach that particular driver that nobody owns the road. Nobody, that is, except Don Lamb.

He isn't sure what's different about this one. It doesn't start out that different than any other time. Pretty girl behind the wheel on her way to nowhere of any importance who turns on the waterworks as soon as she has her window rolled all the way down, as if on cue.

He does his best to radiate boredom, gives her a few minutes of squeaks and sobs and incoherent pleads, and sighs the sigh of the long-suffering. "You done yet?"

And just like that, the waterworks are over, smirk creeping across her lips even as the alligator tears dry on her cheeks, smearing flawless makeup into pale rivulets. "I guess I've been a very bad girl. You gonna arrest me now, Sherrif? Handcuff me? Pat me down? Huh? What?" She gives a gasp, vicious and sharp, and then almost manages to sound hopeful. "Strip search?"

"License and registration," Don repeats flatly, bleeding patience, and watches her roll her eyes as she reaches for her purse. She clicks her tongue as she looks through it, and he catches himself watching the gleam of her pout.

"Oh, what _ever_. God." She sighs this time, irritated. "This is ridiculous already. Can you do me a favor and make this quick? I'm kind of late for a nail appointment here and I'm sure there are actual criminals _somewhere_ in Neptune..." She all but slaps her license into his waiting palm, gaze downcast and mouth twisting with indignation.

He glances at the license, noticing, among other things, a name and a birthdate and, oh, nice, an _organ donor_. He maybe inspects it a little too closely, but he's got a gut feeling about this that he can't shake all of the sudden, and his gut is never wrong. Well, not often enough to count, anyway.

"Miss Sinclair, would you mind stepping out of your vehicle?"

"Yes, I would _mind_ ," she snaps, and smiles coldly up at him through her lashes.

Right. "That wasn't a request."

"Sounded like one to me."

He leans forward, arms on the car's window sill entirely too casual, his head halfway into her car now, totally invading her personal space, blood pounding in his temple the whole while. "Keep pushing it, and I really will have to handcuff you... Madison." He says her name like a sweet revelation, gives her a serene smile even colder than hers and watches her eyes widen in real worry for the first time.

It might've been an accident, but she leans out of her seat with an exaggerated bent forward. Perfect showcase for the vast expanses of peachy skin of her cleavage, deliberate or not. He doesn't let her see him looking. Anyway, girls flashing things at him to get out of tickets – it almost comes with the job description. He knows better than to let it affect his sense of purpose.

He takes out his flashlight and kneels on the driver's seat, leaning to investigate under both the front seats. He knows he's giving her an eyefull, too, but it's not like he can help that. Procedure, and all. Has to be followed. He finds there are no surprises anywhere in Madison Sinclair's car, which makes him more relieved than he should be. He stands and faces her, starts to hand over her license and registration, snatches it back with undisguised glee when she starts to reach for it.

"You were going at nearly twice the speed limit in a residential area," he tells her, waving her license around in little circles. "A school zone is a block away, _and_ I saw you roll that stop sign. I'm afraid I'm gonna have to cite you for numerous moving violations, Miss Sinclair. I'd put that nail appointment out of my pretty little head, if I were you."

She looks horrified, absolutely, disbelievingly horrified, but opens, then closes her mouth. Good. Then she has to go and ruin that.

"My dad'll pay for it all. Big freaking deal. Can I get back into my car now?" She drops her voice into mock seduction. "You can look down my shirt easier that way."

He squints at her, takes his time handing back her license, all the reproach he can muster, her and her defiant chin and matching narrowed eyes, and starts to write the ticket.

Tickets.

Plural.

Oh, yes.

  
***

  
Weeks later, and Don Lamb has almost forgotten the yellow-haired girl with the steely gaze, little red lips and, Lord, that had been one _tiny_ miniskirt. He goes about official business, which he takes very seriously and consists mostly of delegating – he is a hell of a good delegater, no one could deny that – and managing... things... official things... and making very, very important decisions. Extremely important. All day long, even. It took a hell of a lot out of him, more than he let on, because of course, he had to be a _pillar_. That's how Mayor Goodman had described the office of Sheriff once, while clapping Don on the back just a _leetle_ too hard: the Sheriff's office is a pillar of any community, and he, Donald Lamb, is the foundation of that pillar. It's a grueling position for any man to be in, but Don likes to think he manages with both grace and style, and buddy, anyone who says any differently can go straight to hell.

Any and all tedium is subdivided by the myriad ways Don has found to entertain himself around the office. Most people don't think of Don Lamb as a creative man, not a man prone to bouts of inspiration, but Don thinks that's okay because the fact of life is that most people are just useless. That’s just a fact.

He considers using the adjacent gym in the office to be wise and efficient use of taxpayer money as well as being environmentally friendly on account of his staff not having to drive to a real gym. Anyway, there wouldn't be any donut-shoveling pork rinders on _his_ crew, not if he could help it.

On bad days, there are also the occasional incidents in which he has to tolerate that smug bald Mars jackass, his Satanic demon spawn, and said demon spawn's various and sundry degenerate associates. Yessir. Life as the Sheriff of Neptune is always interesting. Never boring. Except that when he says this out loud, Deputy Sacks chirps up that the Chinese have a curse that went like "May you live in interesting times" and that's usually about when Don tells him to _shut his pie hole_ because, you know, for Pete's sake.

The day that Madison Sinclair shows up to pay her ticket fees turns out to be a fortuitous one for Don Lamb. His work out hour is over. He is sweaty and probably smells because he hasn't had the opportunity to reapply his carefully selected cologne of choice yet, so it's a very good thing indeed that she's a counter's distance away. His hair most likely looks like shit too, but she looks like a haughty little vision, sleek coat and tossed hair and flashing red fingernail polish and "What do you _mean_ , you don't take credit cards?"

Don dismisses the hapless rookie (see above, re: most people being useless) and gives her his most winning smile. "Fancy meeting you here. Didja miss me?"

"Omigosh, I wrote _all_ about you in my diary," she says, feigning breathlessness. Then – back to arrogant boredom, like a switch being flipped. Enviable, really. "Look, this has been enough of a time suck as it is. Can't I just give you my Amex and be on my way?"

"Well, gee, _Marilyn_ ," he drawls, just to watch the color rise in her cheeks at the mispronunciation, "Wouldn't want to be in too much of a hurry. That's what got us into trouble in the first place, if I recall."

She ignores that, wrinkles her nose instead and sniffs. "What's that smell? Ew, is that you?" She rakes her gaze over his form, old sweatpants and tanktop instead of his usual gear, as he digs around beneath the counter for the appropriate stamp. "I hardly recognized you without your uniform, Sheriff. I guess when the kids at school start saying you actually live in it, I can totally prove them wrong."

His gaze darkens at her. "I was on. My way. To a _shower_."

"Oooh. Good save." She places the card neatly on the counter and sighs, forlorn.

He finds what he's looking for, starts writing away, tells her pointedly, "Respect is a two way street, you know."

"Yeah, random much?" She snatches the receipt right out of his hands, inspects it with darting eyes. Her mouth spreads into a small smirk. "Has anyone ever told you that you write like a girl?"

He fixes her with one of his famous piercing, unbliking gazes and says, in a low, even voice, "Trust me, little girl. I'm more of a man than you could ever hope to handle."

A pause. Then, all innocence – "That's an awful lot of man," she says, slowly, like a purr. His breathing is suddenly shallow and light, fingers frozen around the pen against his palm. Just. Gives her a serene, tight-lipped smile, stares as he slides the machine over her credit card.

"If you know what's good for you, young lady, you'll think about driving a little more responsibly next time." His words sound like they're coming out of someone else.

She thinks this over, and replies, a beat later, "You know what? If I knew what was good for me, I'd probably have mailed a check in with the traffic ticket."

  
***

Twenty minutes later – because, you know, screw the speed limit at times like this – Don somehow incomprehensibly finds himself pinning her tiny, soft little body against the door of a city limits motel he kind of knew, had heard of before, in passing, like. Seriously. That's when he learns she makes the most delightful little noises in lieu of moaning and sighing like other women had done before her. Also, she has her hand down his sweatpants before he's even reached her mouth with his. He's always admired a woman who knew what she wanted, especially when "what she wanted" was him.

He fumbles for a key in his pocket while rubbing up against her and kissing her breathless; feels lewd and a little awkward doing it almost in public like this, but everybody knows how desire dulls a man's wits. He does finally manage to lurch the door open behind her; they stumble inside and before the door has swung shut, she's pushed him onto the bed (which creaks, like a bad cliché, which is funny) and pushed his sweatpants down and straddled him. He rubs her thighs lightly as they press up against his bare hips, nothing between them but the flimsy cotton of her panties, which are white, a fact whose perversity Don enjoys immensely. In one fluid motion, she wiggles out of her little pink baby tee (that reads PRINCESS with a little sparkling rhinestone crown around the P) and Don thinks: this girl may actually be perfect. Little rhinestone crown over a P kind of PERFECT.

Suddenly he sees so much skin stretching out before him, he doesn't know what to touch first, doesn't know what to look at, and the thought fleetingly occurs to him that maybe he ought to get out more, because that's the only explanation he has for the way this petulant teenage girl's managed to rattle him like this. Then Madison takes off her bra and smiles a real smile at the look on his face, so he makes up his mind to stop thinking, go on instinct, which has never failed him before, in any ways that mattered, anyway.

  
***

  
Later, he swears to himself it's a one time thing.

But it's not.

  
***

  
Don hates motels anyway. Nothing that ever happened at a motel wouldn't have been better off happening somewhere else. He thinks up an elaborate plan for Madison to drop her car off on a corner, walk 2 blocks, and have him pick her up, then come into his place through the back door. But she bristles at that, figures any plan that makes her walk four blocks just to get laid is, by definition, a bad one. He launches into a ramble about his professional reputation and how if he'd known she was still in high school, maybe – but he does in fact want to get laid that night, so he doesn't finish that thought, but he still gets an eyeroll for his trouble.

"You need to relax," Madison tells him, aiming for soothing and landing somewhere nearer to terse. And, see, her lack of understanding here is getting really fucking frustrating, so -

"I'll tell you what I need. I need a vacation. A bigger expense account. A better coffeemaker in the break room. Right now, especially, at this particular point in time, I could use a nice, stiff drink. But what I _have_ -" his expression turns icy – "Is you. So make do, or do without, _princess._ "

She looks at him like he's slapped her; the satisfaction welling up against his ribs feels like it, too. She takes a long time to spit out, "Sometimes? You make me sick." She slips out of the car and he feels no teeny little pang of any sort because he's never moved by crocodile tears as a general rule - so he just calls after her: "Yeah? Then be sure to use your own sink."

  
***

  
He makes sure to be a first prize asshole to _absolutely everyone possible_ down at the station. He mostly knows his own limits. But screw it. Most of them deserve it. See above re: people, useless.

He absolutely does not think about calling Madison Sinclair's cell (from a payphone), and does not for a moment entertain any fantasies about taking her out to a nice restaurant, the kind her dad probably goes to on a whim all the time but is a big freaking blow to anyone in Donald Lamb's tax bracket, tell you what; doesn't see her blushing and smiling at him in his mind's eye, her expression impressed and pleased.

And if you were to ever suggest anything of the sort, he'd tell you that you were a sick son of a bitch.

  
***

A week later, he tells himself he's forgiven her, or maybe it's the other way around, but somewhere deep down inside, he knows it's all to avoid wondering if she's back to going down on him as he leans back in the passenger seat of her little silver bullet car because she just doesn't give a damn about him. Because that's just unnecessary Stinkin' Thinkin and the bottom line is that girls that age are often genuinely attracted to men like him, men in positions of power and authority.

Anyway, the fact of the matter is that later that week, she walks four blocks in the dark just to get laid.

  
***

One night she laughs into his mouth as he tumbles on top of her, his fingers pushing up her bare ribcage under her baby tee (this one says NO... I JUST LOOK LIKE HER in robin's egg blue glitter cursive which he thinks is fantastic because the truth is, the truth is? In his weaker moments he's almost blurted out that she should go into modeling or become a movie star or something, though thus far, his self-restraint in this goddamn situation has been pretty fucking admirable, if you ask him.)

She chatters more than usual as he traces her collarbone with his lips and teeth. She stretches, sighing and curling her toes happily, tells him she told her ex off and _obliquely_ , mentioned his, Don Lamb's, superior sexual skills and he finds he gets a special thrill out of undoing the bra of a girl who smells this good and uses _obliquely_ in casual conversation. Loves it.

She repeats her zinger for him, bragging about his endurance, which makes him flush all over with pleasure and smile a little, and she laughs about "should've seen the look on Dick's face." That gives him pause and he rolls off her momentarily.

"What, the Casablancas kid? That's your ex?"

But she mistakes his tone for residual jealousy, so she just turns onto her side to face him, snuggles closer, squeezes his ass and kisses him with a loud popping sound and says in fake baby talk as she flings one bare leg over his hips, "Don't worry, Sexy. He's totally gross, and anyway, that's _way_ in the past. I've so upgraded."

That night, in particular, the sex turns out to be especially memorable for some reason.

  
***

Leave it to that smug bald Mars _asshole king_ to make something so beautiful – okay, well, it could be beautiful, it could – look and sound so sordid. _Honestly_. Don almost felt sorry for him.

In the picture Mars managed to get his fat little paws on, Madison is almost tumbling over with the force of his passion, peaches and cream little arms flung urgently about his neck, her back arching so that she pressed against him, his fingers digging into her back and hips.

He cuts out (puts through the shredder) the "18! IT'S LEGAL! RE-ELECT DON LAMB!" ( _asshole KING_ ) but he keeps the picture in his top drawer.

It's of his good side.

  
***

  
She easily discovers that her pep squad uniform maybe drives him a little wild, and then she takes care to wear it for him not all the time, but often enough, because unlike the vast hopeless majority of her pitiful peers, Madison Sinclair is a very thoughtful girl. Special. He's always known that.

  
***

  
The demon spawn of Satan (who should really just feel free to spontaneously combust at her earliest convenience) tells him once that if she ever starts dating losers, he'd be the first one she'd call, and he fights the urge to gloat in her face. GLOAT RIGHT IN HER POINTY LITTLE FACE. Because, oh please, that night, he's got a dinner-and-other-stuff date with someone so far above her, he's practically got a nosebleed.

But Veronica Mars really, really doesn't need to know that.

  
***

  
This secret knowledge puts him in a good mood. A damn good mood. By the time he opens his door to find Madison slinking against the door frame, wearing a nothing little seafoam green tank top and tiny, tiny shorts (all for him, oh, God), he's damn near cheerful, which is a rare and not unpleasant state of being for Donald Lamb. He's bought her flowers, which he doesn't really hand her, but her eyes rest on them on the table anyway, and she makes a face he can't decipher and snorts, "Oh. _Nice._ " like he's being ridiculous and she cannot stand it.

But then her hand is warm on the back of his neck and she smiles against his kisses and.

It's not love. Not love at all because that really would be ridiculous, not to mention completely, spectacularly, awe-inspiringly _idiotic_ and Donald Lamb was nobody's fool, least of all the fool of girls who wear seafoam tank tops that say YOU KNOW YOU WANT THIS.

It's not love at all, but, hey. Maybe it's close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://kelex.livejournal.com/profile)[**kelex**](http://kelex.livejournal.com/) , without whose 3AM AIM brainstorming session this story would not be possible, and to [](http://geekybeeny.livejournal.com/profile)[**geekybeeny**](http://geekybeeny.livejournal.com/) and [](http://fox1013.livejournal.com/profile)[**fox1013**](http://fox1013.livejournal.com/) for the awesome beta work and read-throughs. I've been watching a lot of crime noir B-movies lately (most notably, _A Narrow Margin_ ), so the tone and pace of this piece is heavily inspired by those.


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